12 THE BIG ISSUE 18 – 31 JULY 2014
past and recede into the horizon, “waiting for
death or dinner, whichever came first”.
I’ll take dinner, thank you very much. But
walking into a restaurant is also signing a
contract to wait. They really should position
tables to allow for adequate rolling space. Being
caught in the endlessly repeating inertia of life
is the greatest waiting game of all. You reach a
certain age when you realise you’ve waited too
long. You’ve stood motionless in the slips all
day, waiting for the ball to be nicked towards
you, ready to take the catch. But the batsman is
too good, indifferent to your adolescent dreams.
He’ll make his century and walk straight past you
without a second glance. You realise you need to
retrain as a fast bowler and steam towards the
stumps, knocking them over, claiming the glory.
Or you could go on holiday.
Are holidays really just an abdication from
reality? They fulfil a desire to go somewhere – to
be ‘moving forward’, as they say in corporate-
speak – which is why the departure lounge is
such an ironic place to wait. Returning from
holiday means you can return to the routine of
everyday living with a clear conscience, knowing
you’ve taken a commendable sideways step in
advancing your otherwise flailing life trajectory.
The boy in the photograph is ready for
anything. He has his cricket bat and his hair gel.
The airport has no ladies’ clothes stores, but
it does have a staircase to the outdoor viewing
platform, where you can watch monstrous beasts
roar and surge skywards, effortlessly breaking
their shackles, disappearing into clouds and
going wherever they damn well please.
“I’m convinced the invention of smartphones is the result of a
study on rats, in which they were forced to wait for a plane.”
RICKY
PHOTOGRAPHSBYJAMESBRAUND(RAZER)ANDALANATTWOOD(RICKY)
SITTING SOMEWHERE IN an old photo album in
my mum’s garage (drawers by the old mattress,
third one down if I recall) is a photo from
ancient history. I haven’t seen this photo for
many years, but I can picture it clearly – like a
photograph, I guess you could say.
I’m sitting outside the airport terminal in bright
sunshine. To my right is a red sports bag with the
handle of a cricket bat poking out. I’m wearing my
best button-up shirt tucked into stonewash jeans,
and on my feet I have new sneakers. My hair is
combed and gelled back. A grinning 12-year-old,
dressed to kill, or at least dressed to fly.
Hands up who remembers the days when you
dressed up to fly? Now keep your hands up if you
agree you’d rather jam a knife in the toaster than
sit one more minute waiting for your flight to
be called. Time never flies at the airport. The jet
always lags. We’re forced to wait in a shopping
mall. Whose idea was that? Just another way in
which the modern world has stripped the romance
from average, everyday outrageous activities.
Waiting is hard. I’m convinced the invention
of smartphones is the result of a study on rats,
in which they were forced to wait for a plane.
Before smartphones, we dealt with boredom
in more productive ways. As a child I had a
particular tactic to deal with boredom as my
mum browsed ladies’ clothes stores. I would lie
on the floor of the shop, stick my finger in my
mouth and roll myself down the aisle like a log.
Women would jump out of the way in surprise
as I gathered speed. To this day, my three most
feared words are still ‘ladies’ clothes stores’. I
tell you, childhood trauma is real.
A flight, a train, your hopelessly and constantly
late friend, your mother inexplicably mesmerised
by fabric... We’re always waiting for something.
In Bill Bryson’s travel book The Lost Continent,
he tells of an old codger sitting on his porch on a
lonely country road, watching Bryson’s car drive
» Ricky French is a writer and etiquette adviser to
Australia’s Commonwealth Games team. They won’t
win everything, but they will all say ‘Thank you for
having us’ to their Scottish hosts.
The Waiting Game